


For To Quench My Thirst

by apliddell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Crowley in dresses, Crowley in skirts, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gardens & Gardening, Healing, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Intensely Requited Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Tension, Sussex, Tarot, Winged Aziraphale, Winged Crowley, ineffable boyfriends, rest and recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 21:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19798234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: After moving to Sussex with Aziraphale, Crowley is trying so hard to be satisfied with friendship and the suddenly beautiful life he already has.





	For To Quench My Thirst

“Has there been an explosion?” drawled Crowley as he slouched into the bookshop. 

Aziraphale was sat on the floor in his shirt sleeves, surrounded by heaps, stacks, towers of books. There was a long streak of dust on his cheek that made Crowley’s fingers twitch. “Hello dear boy! The crates finally arrived, so I’ve just dived right in. Bit disorganised, unfortunately. I was a little overeager, I suppose.” 

Crowley picked his way through the mess to Aziraphale, went down on one knee in front of him, and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped at the smudge on Aziraphale’s face, “Dived right into what, Angel?”

Aziraphale looked a little confused, though his bright smile didn’t falter, “Well. The cottage is ready. The crates are here. There’s really nothing left to wait for, is there?” 

Crowley wobbled on his knee, then sat down hard, “Sussex.”

“That’s the chap,” said Aziraphale cheerfully. 

“You’re really. Leaving me?” Crowley rather cringed at the pleading little scratch in his voice on the last word. He’d meant to say ‘London’ and not ‘me’ and the question was silly anyway, because their three hundred years in London was the longest time they’d even lived in the same country. Still. Moving apart felt like going backward. 

“We’ve been talking about the move for six months,” Aziraphale reminded him gently. 

“I know that, Angel!” Crowley snapped. “But since I’ve seen you take longer to choose a cravat, I thought we had a bit more time.” 

Aziraphale looked down at the book in his lap, “Then you’ve changed your mind?”

“Changed my mind?” 

“Four months ago you said you’d come with me, but I suppose you don’t want to leave the cit-”

“We’ve never talked about that!” Crowley interrupted. 

“We have,” Aziraphale tried unsuccessfully not to smile. “We were at The Blue Pearl, and you’d offered me the last bite of your octopus confit and you said since I was leaving all that behind, you’d best come and look after the meals or I’d end up living on stewed tea and a sense of superiority and I said you don’t know how to cook either, and then you set fire to your sleeve-”

“I did not!” 

“You were well into the sake at the time, dearest. I expect that’s why you don’t remember.”

“I think I’d remember catching fire and  _ offering to move in with you!”  _ Crowley was beginning to distantly recollect the catching fire bit. 

“Well it was only a matter of time dear, wasn’t it?” 

“A matter of time til I  _ caught fire _ ?!” squawked Crowley, his voice rising objectionably again.

“I know you know that isn’t what I mean.” Aziraphale smiled sedately, “You haven’t changed your mind, then?”

“Well, I. No. I’ll come.” 

Aziraphale’s smile broadened, “Thank you.” 

“Maybe I should take it easy on the sake,” Crowley muttered after a brief silence. “I’d quite have liked to remember that.” 

“Maybe,” agreed Aziraphale, turning back to one of his book towers, evidently a little embarrassed. “It’s rather a sweet memory.” 

Crowley drew his knees up and rested his chin on them to watch Aziraphale sort through books for a bit. It was slow going, as he seemed to feel compelled to open each and leaf through it fondly before setting it aside. 

“You do know you’re not actually packing,” Crowley remarked presently. “All you’ve done is move books from the shelves to the floor.”

“Progress!” singsonged Aziraphale. 

“Fire hazard,” said Crowley mildly. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale nearly overbalanced reaching into the back of a shelf. “I knew I’d find it some day!” To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale drew out a record and held it triumphantly over his head. “You see, my dear! Progress!” And he got up, and brushing the dust from his trousers, made off for the back of the shop. 

Crowley rose and followed him, “What have you got there, Angel?” 

“Music,” said Aziraphale rapturously, lugging an extremely dusty gramophone out of a cupboard and over to his coffee table. He waved a hand to banish the dust. 

“Angel, you can’t play that sort of record on a gramophone.”

“Can’t I?” said Aziraphale easing the record onto the turntable. 

It played, of course and to Crowley’s utter surprise, it was some rather folksy guitar and vaguely fae chimes. 

“I didn’t know you liked this sort of music, Angel.”

“Typically not,” agreed Aziraphale. “But he has a pleasant voice, doesn’t he?” 

Crowley listened, willing his mouth not to screw up sourly, “I suppose.”

“And there’s a song a few in that.” Aziraphale halted and blushed tellingly, “Well, it’s very evocative. You’ll see, my dear.” And he flitted off to carry on with his packing. 

Crowley ambled after Aziraphale, trying to look nonchalant while feeling very chalant indeed. 

“It’s going to take you about another two hundred years to sort this lot out,” Crowley called, as Aziraphale pulled a stack of books off a shelf and dodged one that came tumbling toward the top of his head. 

Aziraphale arrested the book’s fall and sent it gently floating to the top of his stack, “You could help.” 

“Well that’s. Reasonable, I suppose. Where do you want me?” 

Aziraphale waved toward the back of the shop, “Fetch out a crate from the back room and start packing. Do  _ not _ touch any of the books behind the counter or in the glass cases.” 

“Right, I remember I tried that once, and you nearly smote me.” 

Aziraphale chuckled into a shelf, “My dear, I would never.” 

Crowley found a crate in the back room and dragged it out to the nearest shelf, where he began packing books into it indiscriminately. Near the front of the shop he could hear Aziraphale humming along with the music, which he’d begun to recognise as Van Morrison. 

Crowley’s ears sort of prickled listening to it, as if he were hearing something intimate, something not meant for him. Though perhaps it was only unsettling because it was shocking to imagine Aziraphale so bewitched by anything more recent than Beethoven. 

The pins and needles secret thrill Crowley felt listening to his angel flitting about and singing turned suddenly into a gentle tug on his jacket. Crowley straightened up with a start and found Aziraphale behind him. 

“This is the song I meant,” he said almost bashfully. “Evocative.” 

Crowley listened and caught something about  _ gardens wet with rain _ , “It’s pretty.”

Aziraphale held out his elbow, “Can you waltz, dear?” 

Crowley gaped, “Er. I can fake it.”

“That will do,” said Aziraphale tucking Crowley’s fingers over his elbow and steering him to the nearest patch of clear space. 

“It’s so like you to ask me to waltz to Van Morrison.”

“It’s a waltz, dear. What would you have me do?” said Aziraphale as if they’d always danced to rock music in the bookshop. 

“It’s so like you to call Sweet Thing a waltz.” 

“Yes dear, I can count a waltz when I hear it.” Aziraphale settled a confident hand on Crowley’s waist and led him in a slightly sloppy circle, still humming along happily. “This is my favourite song,” he murmured after the first verse, his voice cosy and ticklish near Crowley’s ear. 

Crowley’s voyeuristic prickles intensified, “Is it?” 

“Mmm, this bit reminds me of you.” Aziraphale sang along a little breathlessly, “ _ And I shall drive my chariot/Down your streets and cry/Hey, it's me, I'm dynamite/And I don't know why. _ ..'”

Crowley felt his face growing warm, so he crowded in closer to Aziraphale and tucked his head over Aziraphale’s shoulder, “Am I the dynamite or the streets?” 

“Oh, it depends,” said Aziraphale with the suggestion of an affectionate laugh in his voice. 

Crowley’s sort of a box step was turning to mush, “Seems wrong I never knew your favourite song before. Very un best friendish.” 

“No matter, dearest.” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s back reassuringly, “Now you know.” 

  
  


…

Their cottage was ancient and looked as if its stone walls were held together with a fair dusting of Aziraphale’s miracles. It’d been freshly painted in advance of their arrival so that it stood out blazingly white against the blue sky and the wild green of the country. 

As they approached, Aziraphale put his head out of the window and addressed the shed, “Be a dear, won’t you?” 

It swung forward slowly to admit the Bentley, and it should not have been nearly deep enough to house the car, except that Aziraphale had asked it to be a dear, and he wasn’t an angel one failed to accommodate. 

“Don’t let us keep you,” said Crowley to the luggage as they got out of the Bentley, and it saw itself into the cottage unassisted. He cleared his throat, and the luggage rack vanished obligingly. Crowley turned to Aziraphale, “Sort of a lonely spot, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale had his energetic inventory day look on, “Yes! Well it was a ruin really, not strictly speaking habitable. But I loved the spot, and I just had a little chat with it, and it changed its mind. I thought privacy! And the plot is just right for--well, you’ll see, my dear. All in good time.” 

“Privacy,” repeated Crowley, shutting the shed door behind them. 

Aziraphale nodded and reached out to tap the bridge of Crowley’s dark glasses. 

“Oh,” said Crowley, and he took them off. 

Under his breath, Aziraphale remarked, “Such lovely eyes.” A little louder he said, “And we’ve got velocipedes for if we’d like to pop into town or down to the shore.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “Do you know how to ride a bike, Angel?” 

“Is there much to it?” said Aziraphale rather distractedly. “Just on and away!” He’d come to a stop in front of the gate. “Shall we just go round to the back first before we go in?” 

Crowley shrugged, “Whatever you say, Angel.” He regarded Aziraphale, “You’re scheming, aren’t you? You’ve got a look.” 

“I don’t scheme, I cultivate,” said Aziraphale primly. But his excitement got the better of him, and he rubbed his hands together, wriggling with anticipation, “It’s not really something I can wrap; could I blindfold you instead?” 

“You got me a present?” 

“Is that a yes?”

Crowley pressed his lips together, as Aziraphale’s little grin was about to boomerang round to Crowley’s face, “Go on, then.” He lowered his head. 

Aziraphale huffed a little as he tied on a handkerchief over Crowley’s eyes, “You’re really not that much taller than I am.”

“Just trying to be considerate, Angel.”

“Mmm, I’ll remind you of this resolution in the near future, I’m sure. Take my arm.” Aziraphale closed Crowley’s hand over his arm. “Stay close to me, dearest. The path is a little uneven.” 

“Right, I’m close,” said Crowley, shuffling alongside Aziraphale and suspecting he was enjoying the exercise a little too much. Aziraphale put an arm about Crowley’s shoulders and led him slowly round to the back of the cottage. 

“All right!” said Aziraphale proudly. 

Crowley removed the handkerchief and stared around him in silence. 

“Thought you might like a bit of a challenge,” said Aziraphale presently, stroking Crowley’s arm. “But you. If you don’t like to, you need n-”

“It’s beautiful,” Crowley meant to say. What he said was, “Mnfngk.” He blinked hard and tried again, “You did this for me?”

“I don’t think anyone’s done anything here for a good long while, my dear. But yes, it’s for you. If you want it.”

“Of course I want it,” Crowley lurched forward a step or two, still clinging to Aziraphale’s arm, into his lovely, abandoned, gloriously wild garden. It had been a garden once. There was a scraggly sort of fruit tree on the far edge near a crumbling stone wall and a very overgrown patch of herbs choked with mint. A waft of honeysuckle that Crowley hadn't quite seen yet. Defiant buttercups here and there, arrogant daisies nearly everywhere, and in the centre, encircled in tangles of ivy and roses, a winged statue rose out of a small fountain. The place was abuzz with bees, nimbly dancing wee yellow fuzzies and tottering fat, black bumble bees. It smelled  _ divine. _

Aziraphale bent to pick a daisy and tucked it behind Crowley’s ear with a hopeful little smile, “A bit more life?” 

Crowley felt a bubbling sort of pressure inside, like he might burst or shout or cry. It came out instead as rather giddy laughter, “It. I. Aziraphale. I don’t know what to say.” 

Aziraphale had grown very bright-eyed himself, “You’ve said it all quite eloquently, my dear. I understand you perfectly.” 

…

“Hadn’t you better’ve started with a nice fry-up or something, Angel? Something simple?” remarked Crowley with affection from his seat on their round wooden kitchen table. 

“No,” said Aziraphale, beating egg whites for all he was worth. “I’m getting closer! Third time’s the charm. And your skirt is in the butter dish. Why don’t you sit in a chair?” 

Crowley wiped the butter off his hem and tucked it round his knees, noticing that the butter dish matched the bowl Aziraphale was using to mix his souffle. Crowley wondered idly where all the tastefully rustic blue and white crockery had come from. He’d certainly never seen any sign of it at the bookshop. He hadn’t taken Aziraphale for a filmy pink curtains sort of person either, but the effect was very pleasant when the wind ruffled them. 

“Because I’m showing off my legs. Not my fault you don’t have the manners to ogle properly. Would you like me to…?” he trailed off meaningly and raised his hand in an offer to click the eggs into submission. 

“No!” Aziraphale wheeled round to glare at him, still at the eggs like hammer and tongs, “Crowley, don’t you dare!” 

“Fine, fine,” Crowley held up both hands in surrender. “Whip yourself into a frenzy; I’m only trying to help.” 

“You can help by buttering the ramekins.” Aziraphale blew a breath at a brave curl that was daring to wander across his forehead. 

Crowley hopped off the kitchen table and straightened his skirt, then sidled up to Aziraphale and brushed the curl away. 

“Oh! Thank you dearest, that was tickling like anything.” 

“You’re welcome. What is a ramekin?”

Aziraphale nodded to a pair of little china dishes sat beside him on the blue tile worktop. They were plain white, though they did still look well with the blue and white pattern.

“Ah, these?” Crowley picked one up and looked at it, “To be honest Angel, I don’t think buttering them will improve the flavour.” 

“Blessed yet again with the favour of your wit. Where would I be without you, dearest?”

“Unbuttered,” said Crowley, buttering. 

Aziraphale laughed, then paused when he looked over at Crowley, “Oh. Keep still.” He set aside his bowl of egg whites and leaned toward Crowley to run a hand through his hair. 

“Erm. Angel?” 

Aziraphale held out a dandelion spore, “You had something in your hair. It comes of all this gardening, I expect.” 

Crowley blew the spore away, “While you’re in there Angel, fancy doing us a little plait or something?”

“Oh certainly,” Aziraphale stepped behind Crowley and gathered his hair back from his face, “It’s lovely this length, dear. I’m glad you grew it out again.” 

“Thanks,” said Crowley, prickling so with the pleasure of Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair that he wondered if Aziraphale might be doing some sort of miracle on him. “Bloody hot, though having all that down my neck all the time. If I weren’t so vain, I wouldn’t bother. It just looks so much better with the skirts than the short hair.” 

“Perhaps a bob,” suggested Aziraphale brightly, miracling a ribbon to tie the end of Crowley’s plait with. 

“A bob!” hooted Crowley. “Whoever heard of a forest cryptid with a bob?!” 

“Oh, do you have a theme?” Aziraphale wound the plait into a little knot at the back of Crowley’s head and blew a gently cooling breath on Crowley’s nape. “I like the skirts also, but I didn’t realise they were. Cryptic. And you do know we’re nowhere near a forest?”

Crowley was still trying to recalibrate his brain from the shock of Aziraphale blowing on his neck, so all he said was, “Pllngfk.” 

“I rather thought it had something to do with the garden. I don’t know why,” Azirphale went back to his bowl, “Would you say these are fluffy but not dry?”

“Dry? How can an egg be dry? It does, now you mention it. I suppose I. You made me feel a bit. Nostalgic.” 

“Nostalgic?” A little flicker of worry passed over Aziraphale’s face. 

“Nostalgic in a good way,” Crowley looked out of the kitchen window into his garden. “It’s good to be. Making things again.” 

Aziraphale smiled so sunnily that Crowley had to look away, “Oh, yes! I agree. Making things. Just so. Yes.That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” 

“Making something new. Something fresh.” 

Crowley considered that, “What we had before, we sort of. We made it round something else, didn’t we? Something forced on us.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale clasped his hands and hopped once on the spot, and Crowley’s heart echoed a leap. “And however good it was--and it. Parts of it were  _ so _ lovely--it was a patch. Don’t you think?”

“Over a great ugly splotch,” Crowley nodded. “And however long we’re here, when we move along, it’ll be what we mean to do, and not what we have to.” 

Aziraphale tapped his nose, “Bang on, dearest.” He returned his attention to his egg whites with a sigh, “I think all that’s ever going to come of this is a mess, my dear.” 

“No matter, Angel,” Crowley patted Aziraphale’s back consolingly. “I know a nice recipe for crepes.” 

...

“Size isn’t everything,” murmured Crowley, running a loving finger over the leaves of a strawberry plant. “But sweet, got it? Make him forget he can’t cook. I want scrummy noises. I want a blissed out angel. You can do it. Feel that sunshine? You’re living the good life, so. Pay it forward. Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. I think we understand each other.” He rose up from his crouch in the strawberry beds and went over to the fountain. 

Crowley had decided to leave the ivy and roses on the fountain, being very taken with the sweet little pink, open-hearted things. He hadn’t the heart to tear them away. The fountain did not seem to mind. It had considerately begun to run again after only a bit of hinting. 

Crowley seated himself on the lip of the fountain and reached up to stroke the edge of the statue’s wing, “Hello gorgeous, how are we today?” The rose vines shimmered a fragrant greeting. “You don’t mind, do you?” Crowley stroked a particularly fine blossom, and it drifted obligingly into his hand, “Much obliged, cheers.” He twirled the flower between his fingers, “He likes these. Who wouldn’t? And pink is pretty on him. Pink roses. You know what that is? The symbolism of a pink rose? That’s perfect happiness. That’s what that means. Perfect happiness.” He sighed and pulled his plait over his shoulder to fiddle with the ribbon tied round the end of it, “We’re trying, aren’t we? We’re really. Giving it a go.” 

“Are you nearly ready, dear?” Aziraphale called from the back door. He came into the garden after Crowley instead of waiting for an answer, “Oh Crowley, you’re soaked in dew! You’re wet through.” 

Crowley looked down at his dress, and it was indeed wet through in places. He shrugged, “It isn’t as if I’ll catch cold or anything. I’m not a Victorian waif on the brink of consumption.” 

“Still, it can’t be comfortable,” Aziraphale leaned forward and blew one warm puff of breath over Crowley. 

Crowley shivered under the gesture, but he was quite dry all at once, “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

Crowley held out the rose, “This is for you.”

Aziraphale pushed his nose into it at once, “Mmm oh Crowley! What a delicious fragrance! Gorgeous.” He took the flower and miracled a pin to pin it to his lapel, “So sweet of you to think of me, my dear.” 

Crowley blushed under the praise til he flamed red right up to the roots of his hair, “‘S’only a little flower, Angel.”

Aziraphale shook his head and reached out to squeeze Crowley’s shoulder, “I’m so happy you’re here with me. You make me happy. You will let me say so?”

Crowley turned his head into his other shoulder, his skin tingling under Aziraphale’s touch, “Yes. So’m I.” 

“I’m glad.” Aziraphale took a pair of Crowley’s shades out of his breast pocket, “Did you want these?” 

“Oh yeah, I’ll have them,” Crowley accepted the shades and put them on. “Do they look stupid with the dress? Do you think I should change the shape?”

Aziraphale shook his head, “No, they suit you as they are. And it’s really more of a robe than a dress, I’d say.” 

“I think we’re splitting hairs here,” said Crowley, making for the shed to get their bikes out. “I go in one hole and out three and it comes to my ankles. That counts as a dress. Besides, it doesn’t open at the front.” He sat down on the low wall at the front of the house to pull on his sandshoes and lace them up. 

“Wear a hundred dresses if you like, my dear. I was only thinking that it reminds me of the sort of thing we used to wear in the old days.  _ So _ practical for hot days. Maybe I should get one, too.” 

“You could have one now, if you really want one.” Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s bicycle toward him, “You know you can get them the way I get them.” 

Aziraphale shook his head, “But I don’t like to. I like my things to be made and handled and have a history.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this song before.”

Aziraphale mounted his bicycle, “Shall we?” The bicycle set off immediately at a nice clip. 

Crowley climbed onto his own bicycle and followed, amused, “You know you’re meant to push your feet against the pedals, Angel?” 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale looked round at Crowley. He’d got his ankles crossed and tucked a little behind him like a witch riding a broomstick, “When I do that, it muddles me, and it goes much better without.” 

“Can’t argue with that,” said Crowley, wobbling over a stone and doing a quick miracle to keep himself and his bike upright. 

They biked into the village, stopping once so that Crowley could dismount and tie a knot in his dress to keep the skirt out of the chain and once again because Aziraphale thought he saw a flock of sheep. Still when they arrived in the village, the booths and vendors were not much more than well gathered for the rummage fair and the crowd was small but growing. 

Crowley chained their bikes to a lamppost, and as Aziraphale was already looking longingly at the homemade ice cream stall, Crowley bought him a strawberry cone. 

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale shut his eyes for the second lick, “Oh Crowley try it, it’s scrumptious!” 

Crowley leaned in and licked obligingly, “Delicious.” 

“I’ll make this for you someday, Crowley. See if I don’t.” 

“I’m sure you will, Angel.” 

“Ooooh  _ books! _ ” Aziraphale made for the bookseller’s stall at once, and Crowley trailed after him, laughing. 

“Books, Angel? Really? You’ve got a  _ library  _ at the cottage, not counting the six crates in the shed you still haven’t unpacked yet. We’ve only got so much room in those bike baskets, and we’re meant to be looking for cast iron-”

“But maybe they’ve got cookery books!” said Aziraphale starting to clap his hands, then taking another lick of his ice cream instead. 

“I can’t do a thing with you,” Crowley shook his head but followed along, grinning. 

“Hey Mr Fell!” 

Aziraphale stopped jogging toward the book seller and turned to look about him for the source of the voice. 

It had come from a sandy-haired bespectacled young person, dressed in a pair of bright red shorts and a black jumper with the slogan ‘Gender is Over’ in white block letters. They were sat at a folding table that had a small notice pinned to it reading simply, DIVINATION. There was a ginger cat asleep on the corner of the table. 

“Oh hello, Jules, dear,” said Aziraphale coming over and stroking the cat’s ears. “I’d forgotten you’d be here. How’s business?” 

“Slow,” said Jules rather dejectedly. “Maybe you’d like a reading?” 

“Not just at the moment,” said Aziraphale, attending to a fast-moving drip from his ice cream cone. “I’m still reeling from last Friday when you read my tea leaves.” 

“That was a good one,” Jules agreed. “Maybe one for,” they appraised Crowley who had just arrived at Aziraphale’s side, “your spouse?” they decided.

Crowley tried not to look at Aziraphale, “How do you know this person, Angel?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale went a little pink. “Jules er. Jules. Supplies me with. Consumables.” 

Crowley laughed, “You buy weed from this kid, Angel? I thought I was supposed to be the bad influence.” 

“I’m twenty-five!” interjected Jules indignantly. “What are you, a cop?”

“Do I look like one?” said Crowley, outraged. 

“How nice for you two to finally meet,” Aziraphale had evidently changed his mind about being embarrassed. “I knew you’d hit it off.” 

“So you want a reading, then?” said Jules, raising their voice slightly. “You look like you want sorting out.” 

“Do, if you like. Jules is very good.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s elbow, “I’ll just leave you to it.” And he went off toward the bookseller. 

Crowley turned back to Jules, “Good at what?” 

Jules kicked out under their folding table and pushed a stool out toward Crowley, “Divination. Nice dress. Has it got pockets?” The cat woke up and began to wash its face, then caught sight of Crowley, jumped down from the table and trotted away, rather puffy in the tail. Jules took no notice.

Crowley sat, “Of course it’s got pockets.”

“Did you make it?” 

Crowley thought about that, “Yes.” 

“It’s cool that you make things. I wish I could sew. Make my life easier.” Jules folded their hands on the table in front of them. 

Crowley mimicked the gesture, “Is this part of it?”

“This is a chat,” said Jules. “Just being friendly. What’ll you have then, since you’re all business?” 

“Er. Have? Oh! Az-my erm. Mr Fell said you read his tea leaves?” 

Jules snorted, “Right, and I’ll just plug my invisible kettle into the air and brew us up a cuppa, shall I?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re not very nice?” 

Jules sighed, “Palmistry or tarot?” 

“Tarot,” said Crowley, balling his hands into fists and putting them under the table. 

“Right then, now we’re getting somewhere.” Jules took a little box out from under the table, “I can do you a Celtic cross or a six card spread for love. Those are thirty. I can also do a spiritual guidance spread; that’s eight cards, and that’ll run you fifty. I mean I can do more than that, but going from. Everything about you, I’d say let’s keep it simple.” 

Crowley dug in his commodious pockets for cash and came up with fifteen quid, “What can you do for that?” 

Jules rolled their eyes, “Generally I’d tell you to take a long walk in the fresh air for fifteen, but Mr Fell gave me a basket of your courgettes when I called round last week for his delivery, so let’s call it a down payment in kind. I’ll do you a three card spread for it.” They pocketed the cash and opened the box to pull out a deck of cards. “Have you got a question?” 

“A question?” 

“Yeah, generally people have got a question. Or are we just gazing into the void?” 

“Look, this was  _ your _ idea-”

“Fine, fine, void it is,” Jules shuffled and laid out three cards on the table face down. “The past, the present, the future,” They tapped each card in turn, then turned them over one by one. “Oh.”

“Oh what?” Crowley looked down at the cards anxiously. 

“The cards seem to think you’re a bit silly.” 

“Imagine my surprise,” Crowley leaned back in his chair. “Go on.” 

Jules tapped the first card, “These are The Lovers. You had something special before, and it got you through something really huge. Then you sort of let yourself get lost. That’s where you are now, lost. Lost on purpose. Lack of direction. You think you’re in the dark, but you aren’t. Pull your head out of your backside, and you’ll find you’ve actually got a good sense of where to go,” Jules tapped the middle card. “The Moon,” they added. “She’s a guiding light. That’s you, by the way. Or it’s in you, the light is. You’ve got to trust your intuition.” 

Crowley noted that his hands were beginning to sweat. He wiped his palms on the knee of his dress, “What about the last card?” 

Jules looked a little skeptical, “The future. That’s the four of Wands. That’s like. It’s a very triumphant card. You’ve pushed through, and it’s all bliss. Sublime contentment but it’s like. You know it’s the real thing, because you made it with your own hands. Big events possibly, like births or marriage or something like that.” 

Crowley rose suddenly, knocking over his stool. “Er, thanks,” he righted the stool and backed away, “I should find my. Erm. He’ll be. Thanks. See you later.” 

Jules looked rather alarmed, “Okay. See you.”

Crowley jelly-legged himself to the booksellers which sent him to a booth that was selling used records which sent him to a booth that was selling honey and bee products where he found Aziraphale at last. 

“Oh hello dearest,” Aziraphale smiled and held out a little pot of hand creme, “Smell this.”

Crowley sniffed obediently, “Sweet. If you come into the garden with this on, the bees’ll think you’re a flower.” 

Aziraphale laughed, “You say such lovely things, Crowley dear.” And he bought the pot of hand creme. 

…

  
  


Crowley paused in the threshold of the back door. He felt as if he’d walked into a moment he should take note of. Aziraphale had got out his gramophone, which was piping the Beach Boys into their kitchen from their kitchen table. From behind a screen near the wood stove, Aziraphale was trying to sing along with Wouldn’t It Be Nice. By the accompanying soft splashings, Crowley imagined he must be having a bath. 

“Is that you, Crowley dear?” Aziraphale called. 

“I’ve brought you some strawberries,” Crowley lifted the bowl of berries in his hands, though Aziraphale couldn’t see him from behind the screen. 

“Oooh, come!” Aziraphale knocked on the screen to beckon Crowley forward. 

Crowley dragged a stool round the screen and sat down on it, “Hello Angel.”

Aziraphale was chin-deep in a zinc tub of warm, honey-fragrant foamy water, “Hello dear, how are the flowers?” Aziraphale leaned toward Crowley and sniffed, “I can smell the garden on you.” 

Crowley hoped that the warmth in his face was radiating from the pot-bellied stove, but suspected it wasn’t, “The flowers send their love. Plus we’ve got these,” he held out the bowl of strawberries. 

“Oh, I must try them!” Aziraphale stretched out a sudsy hand and tried unsuccessfully to flick the bubbles away, “Little help, dearest? Would you mind?” And he raised his chin, mouth open, expectantly. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley blushed even more furiously but brought a strawberry to Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Aziraphale bit in eagerly, nibbling the slightest bit at Crowley’s thumb when he did, then sank back into the tub, eyes shut, one hand to his forehead as if swooning, “ _ Ohhh mmmm! _ Oh, my dear. Those are  _ exquisite!”  _ And he opened his mouth again for another. 

“I’m not feeding you the entire bowl like this,” said Crowley, tucking in another strawberry and knowing that he gladly would bring the entire garden to the lip of the tub and feed it to Aziraphale bite by bite if bidden. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled, showing the stain of the juice on his bottom lip, “You are too good to me, dearest.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand in his soggy one. 

“I. No.” Crowley ate a strawberry so that he could think, “I’m only trying to do my part.”

“Making something,” murmured Aziraphale, low like he didn’t mean Crowley to hear. He sat up a little more. “Did you notice the moon? Or has it just come out? It’s a lovely big, yellow one.” 

“The moon,” Crowley repeated. He half turned to look through the kitchen window at the moon. “Aziraphale, would you like to come for a walk with me? I need to speak with you.” 

“Certainly! A moonlit stroll, I was just going to say! Let me get out, dear and I’ll be right with you.” 

…

The night air was sweet and mild with just the faintest whiff of the sea on the breeze. The wind was feeling lively that evening. It whiffled Crowley’s skirt and kissed Aziraphale’s curls and dived down to rush among the grass. Aziraphale kept looking up at the sky as they ambled together, an expression of wonderment on his face, “Oh Crowley, I haven’t seen so many stars in years. I’m so glad we’ve come; it’s beautiful here.” 

“It is beautiful, yeah.”

“Doesn’t it just make you want to…” Aziraphale’s form wavered momentarily, then his wings burst out, huge and white and softly luminous. “Ohhhh, feels so good to stretch!” 

Crowley dodged to keep from being knocked down, then stretched out his own wings, “Shall we have a little jaunt, Angel?” 

Aziraphale flapped and leapt into the air in reply, and Crowley went after him. They circled the meadow as they gained height, then Crowley pointed in the direction of the sea, and Aziraphale nodded. They went sailing toward the coast, their huge wings nearly silent when they beat. It was delicious to be in the sky again, to have the wind on his face and in his hair. It’d been long enough that he’d nearly forgot how wonderful it is to fly. 

Below them, the sea glittered in the moonlight. Aziraphale kept looking round at Crowley. The crash of the waves and the rush of air all but drowned his scraps of delighted laughter, but Aziraphale’s expression of careless euphoria spoke loud enough. 

Presently Crowley pulled up to light on the cool, crunching sand and Aziraphale dropped down next to him, “Anything the matter, Crowley?”

Crowley shook his head, “No, not at all. I’ll go back up with you in a bit, if you like. But I did want to speak to you, and that’s not the best place for it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale folded his wings politely behind him, and Crowley was briefly distracted by a desire to stroke them. “Yes, Crowley? What is it?”

Crowley drew a deep breath, “I want more of you! I mean. I. I. You’re my. You’re the b-” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, then sank down to sit cross-legged in the sand. “I can’t fucking. Talk!”

Aziraphale sat down next to him and took his hand, “In your own time, my dearest.”

“Thanks,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers, “I. This. I’m a bit of a mess, so. This’ll be messy.” Aziraphale didn’t laugh or interrupt, only patted Crowley’s hand between his own soft, plump ones. “Since I can remember, I’ve been sort of. Itchy. Not literally itchy ergh I hate that metaphor. Forget itchy, okay. Erm. I’ve felt throughout my existence that erm. I was unsatisfied. Like there was something I needed to. Find. Or fix or something. And. After we sorted out you know. Adam and that. The second one, I mean. I thought the feeling would go away. But it hasn’t. And you. You keep.” 

Crowley sighed and scooped up a handful of sand in his free hand and let it trickle out into the pool of his skirt, “You keep giving me these beautiful things. You. You made me a paradise. A tiny little scrap of world that feels like. It was meant for me. Nestled just right into my. Broken bits. And I’m still not.” Crowley bit his lip and looked down at his hand cradled between Aziraphale’s. He let his eyes spill over, “I should be happy. I should be. Satisfied. But. I think I’ll always feel like. I need fixing until. Erm. I. I’ve got to tell you. I’m so. I’m in love with you. I. I don’t know what to. Do.” When Crowley looked up, Aziraphale was weeping freely. “Oh Angel. I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Azirphale’s lip trembled and Crowley had to look away, “My love, I. I meant to be patient and gentle. I should have  _ told _ you! I should have told you, Crowley!” And he gathered Crowley to him and kissed him. “My dearest, my love. I love you.” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s cheek, his hair, his back. Kissed him and kissed him, “I love you. I love you.”

Crowley hadn’t realised how tightly curled in on himself til he'd been unfurled by such tender hands. The joy and relief rushed through him like a crashing wave, set him asparkle like moonbeams on the ocean. And he clung tighter to Aziraphale and surrendered. 


End file.
